Blood Brothers in Louisbourg (3 page)

Chapter Four

T
he redcoat stood on the ice and raised his musket. The deer turned her head with concern. She sensed his presence but was hearing sound from all directions and was confused. For two days the temperature had risen above freezing and the woods were filled with the anticipation of spring. The soldier braced himself and took careful aim. How pleased he would be to provide fresh meat for his companions. He placed his finger on the trigger and made one final guess for the wind.

At that very moment, Two-feathers let his arrow fly. The arrow sliced through the air and struck the bough directly above the deer. She bolted. The soldier followed her with his eye and pulled the trigger. The musket fired with a sharp concussion that echoed through the woods but missed its target. The noise angered the river. It opened up the ice directly beneath the soldier and swallowed him, musket and all. Two-feathers watched as the redcoat slipped beneath the ice without a trace. It happened too quickly and he was too far away to try to save him. The ice straightened itself and there was nothing left but the redcoat's tracks in the snow.

Two-feathers waited until the other redcoats came looking for their hunter. He saw them follow his tracks onto the river and wondered how many more the angry spirit would take. There were only five of them left. When they reached the end of their companion's tracks the river opened again and grabbed at two of them, but the others held on and fought for them. As they fought bravely, the angry spirit let them go.

The redcoats returned to their camp shouting and shaking their heads. They were angry with the river spirit and afraid of it. Perhaps they would not go any further now. But Two-feathers would. It was the third time he had rescued the young doe and now he knew she was definitely following him, or perhaps leading him. Now that she had crossed the frozen river, he would also.

As twilight descended and the redcoats drowned their sorrow in poisonous drink, Two-feathers went to the river's edge and asked for safe crossing. The river spirit refused. He explained that he needed to cross the river in order to follow the spirit of his mother, who had taken the form of a deer. The river spirit was silent. It was considering his request. Suddenly a wind gusted from behind and pushed him forwards. Two-feathers took this as a sign of permission. Standing tall, he walked boldly across the ice. He knew it was important to show that he was not afraid. If the river spirit detected any weakness in his courage it would swallow him instantly.

On the other side he did not see the doe but found her tracks. That was enough. He was certain she would appear to him again.

He found a gully, cut spruce boughs for his bed, made a fire and roasted a rabbit. The meat was tender and filling, yet not completely satisfying. Always in the spring he felt a hunger for the fruits of summer, the cranberries, blackberries, blueberries, apples, tubers and chestnuts. In the winter he ate like a fox, feasting on rabbits, pigeons and partridge. In the summer he ate like a bear, scooping salmon from the river and berries from the fields. Winter was a time of survival. Summer was a time of replenishing. Only the summertime provided the nourishment he needed to stay healthy and strong.

Two-feathers lay down in his bed and pulled the boughs around him. He drifted off to sleep dreaming of the young doe standing in a field of cranberries. In his dream, she spoke to him, with the voice of his mother.

“I have come to you,” she said, “to give your heart rest. I want you to know that, though I died young, I am content where I am. I am happy. You must not worry for me.”

The dream was pleasant and comforting but not the only visitation he received that night. Some time later, in the dead of night, he heard the howl of a wolf. But this was not a dream. It was a rare sound in the woods. Ever since the coming of warriors from beyond the sea, the wolf was rarely heard and almost never seen. And yet, Two-feathers recognized the howl instantly. He had no doubt it was an angry spirit coming to frighten him, to make him turn back. As he lay still and listened to the howls growing closer, he had to fight down his fear. He was no match against a full-grown wolf, especially in the dark. How he wished he had kept the fire going and had gathered more wood. If he kept a roaring fire through the night he might have held the wolf off from attacking until morning. But it was too late now.

The wolf's howl was very close. Of all the sounds that haunted the woods, it was the most frightening. It was a sound that spread hopelessness and fear. Two-feathers felt a shiver go up his spine. He scarcely breathed. Then, he heard the punch of paws in the snow. They were so heavy. The wolf had found his sleeping berth. Next came the sound of violent breathing as the beast sniffed at his spruce-bough cocoon. And then … the growl. It was low and deep and terrifying, designed to scare the courage out of every living creature.

But Two-feathers was a warrior. If he were going to die, he would die a warrior, not a coward. Responding to the wolf's intimidation, he raised a growl from within his own chest. He didn't even hear it himself, so consumed was he with setting loose a growl more vicious than the wolf's own. Two-feathers' growl told the wolf that he was a great warrior about to rise from his sleep and take his long knife and strike the wolf down and slay him and skin him and wear his fur and dangle his teeth in a chain of decoration. All of this Two-feathers communicated in a single growl, with the greatest conviction of his life.

And he really would have risen out of his bed and struck at the wolf with all his skill. And likely he would have died. But he was never given the chance to find out. The wolf was satisfied that Two-feathers was a worthy opponent. There was no need to spill blood to prove anything. And the thought of its teeth dangling in a neckpiece did not especially appeal to the beast. There were many delicious creatures in the woods that would not be nearly so much trouble to catch and eat. So the wolf snorted and moved on. Two-feathers breathed deeply and tried to relax. The creation of such a powerful growl had exhausted him and caused his body to break out in a sweat. He shivered for a long time until his limbs finally dried and warmed again and he was able to fall back to sleep.

In the morning the doe appeared once again. Two-feathers was glad to see that she had also escaped the hunger of the wolf. But something in the look of her was different. It was as if she carried an impatience, as if where she was leading him was now not so far away. Was this, he wondered, why the spirit of the wolf had visited him; to scare him away from what he would discover today?

He followed the doe through the morning, catching glimpses of her twice and staying steadily on her tracks until they came to a great oak, an enormous tree of many generations' growth. Such a tree would surely be visited by rich and benevolent spirits. Two-feathers stood and admired the tree for a long time, offering words of respect. In its branches the voices of birds sang the song of spring, while below on the ground the ice and snow had melted away from its great trunk, revealing yellowed grass with a hint of green. Two-feathers was in awe. It was as if he had discovered the very origin of spring.

A closer look at the tree revealed an opening on one side. The trunk contained a cavity large enough for a small person to crawl inside. Gripping the wet bark with both hands, he stuck his head in. His heart beat wildly. He knew he had come to a sacred place. After a moment's adjustment to the darkness inside the tree, he opened his eyes and stared. There, curled up like an infant, was his beloved mother.

Chapter Five

O
n the third of May, 1744, we sailed into Louisbourg Harbour. If this was spring in the New World I wasn't very impressed. It was cold and damp, and I couldn't see anything but rocks and a few stubby bushes. There wasn't a single flower to be seen, or even a tree. There were tree stumps but no trees. There were many cannon pointed in our direction as we glided into the harbour. Several were fired to announce our arrival. It was a wonder they didn't sink us right then and there. I had only one thought in my head – to get off that cursed ship and never set foot upon one again. That left me with a problem, of course – how to return to France. For the time being, I decided not to think about it.

The soldiers on the ship were shouting, and the people on the quay were yelling, groping at the air and waving their arms. We dropped anchor, lowered our rowboats and rowed to shore. I saw when we got closer that the people were not yelling out of excitement as much as desperation. They were more interested in the food and supplies we were carrying than the pleasure of our company.

I followed my father onto the quay. We were met by the Governor of Louisbourg, no less, and a few other local dignitaries, who stood out from the people like flowers amongst weeds. The Governor, in particular, looked out of place. He carried himself with an air of exasperation or illness, as if his being here was by accident. The people around him were very rough – soldiers and fishermen mostly. Their children were worse. They were straggly and unkempt. Not a single person struck me as having the strength, the will, nor the ferocity to defend the fortress against the English. They looked already defeated.

We were introduced to the Governor briefly; then to Monsieur Anglaise, a rich merchant who was staying with the Governor; then to the Master Engineer – a man my father liked a lot; and to the fortress priest – a man my father appeared to hate. I found the priest rather grim myself, but everyone seemed rather grim. I didn't realize that they were practically starving. The arrival of our ship was their salvation.

I was given a bed in a barracks – my father insisted; he wanted me to experience the soldier's life – but he stayed at the Master Engineer's house across the street. I could tell from the way engineers were treated that they were held in high regard in Louisbourg. They were the creators of the fortress's impenetrable defence system. I didn't see what was so impenetrable about it; the walls were just heavy blocks of stone. And the stone looked soft, as if it would crumble if you hit it hard enough.

The Governor lived in his own residence above the town. It was surrounded by a wall and moat. Entrance to his courtyard was gained through one gate only, across a drawbridge guarded by soldiers. No one passed through the gate without the Governor's official consent, but it was the guards who decided who would receive the Governor's consent and who wouldn't.

After a few days of settling in, during which time I never even saw my father, so busy was he preparing to refortify the fortress, I was called to the Governor's residence. A young servant, just a boy, came into the barracks first thing in the morning and shook my shoulder gently. I couldn't imagine why the Governor would want to see me.

As I left my bed and followed the boy through the cobblestone streets I realized that the supplies of our ship had already raised the spirits of the people. I saw it on their faces in the street. Gone was the dull greyness. In its place were rosy cheeks, laughter and a skip in their step. We had also brought news of war. This raised the spirits of many too. I couldn't imagine why.

The guards on the drawbridge knew I was coming and let me pass. I think they shared a joke on my account because I didn't look anything like a soldier. I didn't care. I wasn't trying to impress anyone here, least of all the soldiers.

The first door inside the Governor's courtyard led into the fortress chapel, where I caught a glimpse of the priest, who did not appear to have cheered up at all. We continued on our way until I was led into the rooms of the Governor, where I stood and waited. But it wasn't the Governor who wanted to see me at all. It was the rich merchant, Monsieur Anglaise. He got up from a chair next to the Governor and greeted me warmly. He seemed very happy to see me. I had no idea why.

“Ahhhhh … Master Jacques! At last. Please come in. You have met the Governor.”

He gestured towards the Governor. The Governor nodded and raised his hand frivolously but never said a word. I bowed deeply. “It has been my honour, sir.”

M. Anglaise gestured for me to sit on a plush velvet chair in a corner of the room. Tea was brought in by a young maid and laid on an ornate serving table. I was impressed with the elegant décor of the room. It was as if a small piece of proper French society had been transported into the wilds of the New World.

M. Anglaise was surprisingly talkative and appeared to have the answers to all of his questions before he even asked them. “Jacques. I understand you are an educated young man.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I have read a few books, sir.”

“That is the answer of an educated man. Have you read Voltaire?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good! Then you know that there is at least one man in France who can tell the difference between a king and an opulent ass.”

I started to smile then bit my lip. He changed his expression suddenly and stared at me intensely, not in an unfriendly way. “Words spoken in this room do not leave this room. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Have you read Michel de Montaigne?”

“Yes, sir. Some.”

“Good. Plato?”

“Yes, sir. The dialogues.”

“And
The Republic
?”

“Not yet. I'm planning to.”

“Ahhh, yes, you must! Then you will really understand where Voltaire is coming from.”

“Yes, sir.”

“A monarchy is an extravagant thing, Jacques. It's too costly for any country. Plato understood that two thousand years ago.”

“Yes, sir.”

I glanced at the Governor. I wondered what he thought of M. Anglaise calling the King an ass. It was probably treason, or blasphemy, punishable by death. But the Governor didn't appear to be paying attention. He started coughing. M. Anglaise got up from his seat, crossed the room, put his hand on the Governor's shoulder and squeezed it. Then he pulled it away and paced about the room thoughtfully. “Tell me, Jacques. Have you ever managed to read Boethius?”

“
The Consolation of Philosophy
. Yes, sir.”

“Ah, you are well educated indeed. How peculiar to have been raised in the home of a military engineer. I take it you don't share your father's views on war?”

“No, sir. I believe the destiny of France lies in the spread of new ideas, not weapons.”

“Indeed! A delightfully revolutionary view. Be careful you don't find yourself in a dungeon, my passionate young scholar. You must know that Boethius bestowed his philosophy upon us from the confines of a dungeon, do you?”

“No, sir, I didn't know that.”

“Yes, indeed. He fell out of favour with the ruling elite. Do you understand the function of a dungeon, Jacques?”

“To punish, sir?”

“Not merely, Jacques. Not merely. The function of a dungeon is to destroy the spirit of a man. Our engineers are proud of their dungeons. They claim they are escape-proof.”

M. Anglaise stopped pacing and stared out the window. He seemed far away. “But I don't imagine we have a Boethius in our dungeon now.”

“No, sir. Is there anyone in the dungeon, sir?”

M. Anglaise raised his eyebrows and deferred the question to the Governor. The Governor wiped his mouth with his handkerchief and answered dryly. “What? Oh. Yes. Yes, of course. A few drunks, I think.”

M. Anglaise looked out the window again. I still didn't know why he had summoned me. “Tell me, Jacques. Do you subscribe to the notion of the ‘noble savage'?”

“I don't know, sir. I have read about it. Having never seen one, I don't know what to think.”

“It is a romantic notion, but there must be something to it. All our great writers have written of it. I am afraid we are a poor influence on the Natives here, Jacques. They still trust us though we steal their land and kill them with disease. Certainly, if there are noble people in the New World it is not the French.”

He turned from the window and faced me again. “The reason I have asked you here, Jacques, is that I have a daughter. She is a delicate and intelligent creature, the treasure of my heart. Celestine is her name. She is almost sixteen, and, like you, comes from good society and is well educated. Her mother died three years ago. It was a loss from which she has not recovered. I was unwilling to leave her behind, and, against my better judgment, brought her here, where I believe she is unhappy. Well … I
know
she is unhappy. I understand that you are accomplished in the playing of the violoncello, is this true?”

“It is my passion, sir.”

“Excellent! Celestine enjoys the violoncello more than anything else. I do not know if she has any talent; she has not benefited from expert teaching and I am tone deaf. If you would be willing to commit some of your time and energy to her musical education, thereby bringing a few rays of sunshine into her dreary existence, I would be most grateful and will, in return, compensate you during your stay here in any way that I can.”

“I would be honoured, sir.”

“Splendid! That is what I hoped you would say. You will find her in the sitting room upstairs. Please don't be put off by her dour disposition and reticence. She has a cheery heart, really, and a sharp wit too if you can coax it out of her. It has not been an easy thing for her to spend so much time amongst the likes of soldiers and fishermen.”

“I will do my best, sir.”

He smiled, nodded his head and turned his back to me. I took that as a sign to leave. I bowed respectfully and left the room.

I climbed the stairs and stood at the doorway to the upper sitting room. It was just as fancy as downstairs. A maid stood in my way, told me to wait, then came back and led me into the room.

As I entered, I saw a shy but pretty girl turn from her writing desk and look up. She said a word or two to the maid and, like a lady, held out her hand to me. I crossed the room, took it and lightly kissed it. She had the look of someone who had been ill, though her cheeks were rosy. Probably they were coloured with powder. Her dress, ribbons, jewellery and shoes were all the latest fashion in France and were quite elegant. The fragrance of her perfume made me think of flowers. We could have been in any drawing room in Paris, in any capital of Europe really, anywhere but in the New World.

As a well-trained young lady she looked directly into my eyes and made an effort to smile. But it wasn't very convincing. Her lips curled up but the corners of her mouth stayed down as if they were weighted with bags of salt. Her eyes looked tired and wounded. The wound was deep. I bowed my head. “I am honoured to meet you, Mademoiselle.”